


Flashback: A Very Dull Meeting

by wheel_pen



Series: Nicobar [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, F/M, M/M, Nicobar, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 16:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4529403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft calls his younger brother to his office to chastise him for how he spends his copious free time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flashback: A Very Dull Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> This story is set in a fictional modern country where slavery is legal. There is a huge disparity between the very rich, who sequester themselves in luxurious compounds, and the rest of the population.
> 
> Inherent in slavery and other forms of subjugation are dubious consent, unhealthy relationships, and violence.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

_A few years ago_

Mycroft’s office was enormous, far larger than one person needed to actually work. It was larger than Sherlock’s entire suite, he estimated, not that he was complaining—he didn’t need that much room himself. But it just underscored the ridiculously oversized nature of Mycroft’s office. And it probably _still_ wasn’t large enough to hold his ego.

Sherlock had time to think about all of this as he crossed the carpet from the door to Mycroft’s desk, that’s how large the room was. Though Sherlock _did_ think extremely quickly.

Mycroft sat behind his massive desk, signing papers in a folder and pointedly _not_ watching his brother approach. Which was alright, because Sherlock was occupied in gazing at Mycroft’s assistant Anthea, who stood just behind his shoulder waiting to receive the papers.

Gazing at Anthea was an art. She was a lovely young woman, well-dressed, well-made-up, confident in her position and duties. He had to gaze at her in a way that made her feel small and vulnerable, insecure, definitely not childish though—no, he had to suggest that what he had in mind to do to her was anything but childish. But he couldn’t overplay it—no leers, no conventional display of lust. He had to gaze at her like he wanted something far more sinister, _nastier_ , than she could possibly comprehend.

Why?

Well, why not?

Mycroft signed the last paper and shut the folder, then finally glanced up to see what Sherlock was doing that had kept his mouth shut. Tormenting Anthea, per usual, he surmised. He handed her the folder, shaking it slightly to get her attention—her eyes were fixed on Sherlock like a rabbit’s on a rattlesnake.

“Hello, Anthea,” Sherlock purred, and she dumped the papers all over the floor. Triumphant he plopped down in a chair and propped his feet up on Mycroft’s desk.

“You may go,” Mycroft told Anthea as she scrambled to pick up the papers. He strove for a neutral tone, not wanting to give anything away in front of his brother; later he would have to reassure her that he wasn’t angry at her. He knew who was at fault here. She hurried out the back door with her mixed-up documents, trying not to run.

Sherlock wasn’t even looking at her anymore, having dismissed her utterly from his thoughts. Apparently, he could do that to people. He went back to being mildly sullen that he’d been summoned to his brother’s office. Mycroft tried not to squirm—he was not a squirmer—as he went over the words he’d chosen.

“I’m sure this will be an uncomfortable conversation for both of us,” he began professionally, “but something has to be—“

“Get on with it, Mycroft,” Sherlock interrupted, boredly.

Mycroft got on with it. “I’ve been getting a number of complaints about your behavior,” he said, and Sherlock sighed and stared at the ceiling as if this was the most tedious conversation he could possibly imagine. Irritation sharpened Mycroft’s tone. “Complaints about you beating up slave girls,” he went on archly, “which is a really lovely predilection I can’t wait to tell Mummy about.” Actually he was using all his power to _prevent_ their mother from hearing about it, as Sherlock could well guess.

“Some of them are boys,” Sherlock corrected, and Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I’m not beating them up.” Mycroft gave him an unimpressed look and started scrolling through the reports on his phone. “They’re experiments.”

Mycroft perused the list he’d brought up. “Riding crop, bamboo cane, several different belts—“

“I needed to compare the marks,” Sherlock claimed. “There are subtle differences—“

Mycroft cut him off. “Stinging nettles, bite marks—“ What had been seen could not be unseen, or unthought.

“That was a very enlightening experiment,” Sherlock said. He seemed completely serious when Mycroft glanced at him.

“Whips,” he continued evenly, “rope burns, some kind of itching powder—“ He had read the entire list before, several times; but saying them out loud he could still hardly believe them.

“Okay, I admit, that didn’t go quite like I thought it would,” Sherlock conceded, thinking this indicated humility.

Mycroft laid the phone down—there was more to the list, but he trusted Sherlock got the point—and gave him a steady gaze that clearly said, ‘Explain yourself.’

Sherlock was immediately defensive. “What else am I supposed to do here?” he complained.

“Have you tried… reading books?” Mycroft asked, bone dry. “Some people quite enjoy that.”

Obviously, Sherlock felt judged—which was an accurate take on the situation—and fidgeted in his chair, slightly agitated. Mycroft counted that as a win. “I don’t see the problem,” Sherlock insisted, frustrated.

“Don’t you.”

“After the experiment I don’t make them stay for sex if they don’t want to,” he pointed out, which made Mycroft raise an eyebrow. He assumed there was some pragmatic reason for that, as opposed to one of decency. “And if they complain I don’t ask for that slave again.”

Clearly this seemed reasonable to him. Mycroft consulted his phone again, an unnecessary flourish as he knew what he wanted to say. “Apparently… Molly-332 doesn’t complain?” Since he’d requested her with such regularity.

“No. She likes it.”

Mycroft was not in a position to comment on the truth of that statement. “And that’s why you’ve spent half your monthly allowance on her time from the Garden?” he surmised, still cool. Sherlock was not off the hook just because he’d thought this through rationally, as opposed to taking out his temper on helpless slaves.

His brother gave him a look that was somehow both perplexed and arrogant. “I get an allowance? I thought everything was just… free.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes _and_ scoffed aloud at this, which was really beyond the pale. But somehow he was also not surprised that Sherlock didn’t pay attention to things like that. For his part Sherlock was thinking back and trying to remember if anyone had mentioned _allowances_. He didn’t think so, but it seemed like something he would delete as unimportant.

Mycroft tried to get them back on track. “Molly’s supervisor has suspended her from duty for three days so she can recover from the…” He peered at the complaint again. “…circular bruises with small burns at the center?”

Sherlock was happy to enlighten him. “You take a shot glass and turn it upside down over a piece of burning—“ He could see Mycroft didn’t want to hear it. His loss. “It’s a common technique in alternative medicine,” Sherlock insisted. “There’s peer-reviewed literature on it. Trickier than it looks, though,” he admitted.

Mycroft gave him a long look that said, ‘What am I going to do with you?’

Sherlock sighed and looked back up at the ceiling. There were angels in togas painted on it, like a cathedral. Usually at this point Mycroft imposed severe restrictions on him for a certain length of time, then lectured him about putting his ‘gifts’ to better use. Or maybe he would send him away again, make him someone else’s problem for a while.

Of course neither of those things worked long-term. And maybe Mycroft was becoming desensitized to his brother’s antics, because having heard Sherlock’s version of events, he was feeling oddly… relieved. Not one hundred percent, not even close. But more than he’d thought he would, that much was certain.

“Would you like me to have Molly moved to the house?” he offered.

He could tell Sherlock was not expecting this response. “I don’t mind walking to the Gardens,” he shrugged.

That was not the point. “I’ll have her moved to the house,” Mycroft restated definitively. “You’ll still have to make an appointment to use her.”

“Oh, is that how it works?” Sherlock asked sarcastically. He had never been gracious about gifts.

“Use the house slaves instead of the Garden,” Mycroft ordered him, trying to make this sound like Sherlock’s punishment. “They have to keep looking good for the public. And try to cause less damage. Or we’ll be having another one of these unpleasant talks,” he concluded dismissively, reaching for another folder on his desk.

“I didn’t think it was that bad,” Sherlock claimed, dropping his feet to the floor.

“Get out.” Sherlock did.


End file.
